


Protect and Defend

by green_grrl



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_grrl/pseuds/green_grrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The National Hockey League decided to expand the number of clubs in Canada, and in the summer of 2013 the Quebec Nordiques are scrambling to birth a brand new franchise with an old name. (Yeah, definitely an AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protect and Defend

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [theemdash](http://theemdash.livejournal.com) in the [jd-ficathon](http://jd-ficathon.livejournal.com), who wanted 1. AU (author's choice). 2. Banter. Optional Request: hockey AU. Thank you _so_ much to [brainofck](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brainofck/pseuds/brainofck) for an incredibly speedy and thoughtful beta! Some bits cribbed from Proving Ground.

**Bienvenue a Les Nordiques de Québec  
Welcome to the Quebec Nordiques**  
  
---  
**COACHING STAFF**  
|  **Head Coach Jonathan "Jack" O'Neill** Quebec City welcomes back Jack O'Neill, the extraordinarily popular captain of the Nordiques 80-81 through their division title in 85-86, returning now as Head Coach. He holds two Stanley Cup championships, with the New York Islanders in 1992 and 1993. O'Neill was most recently Head Coach of the Colorado Avalanche. Affectionately called _mon colonel_ during his playing days in Quebec, the team has recently taken to calling him _mon general_.  
|  **Assistant Coach Charles Kawalksy** Charlie Kawalsky has 35 years experience in the NHL as a player, scout, and coach. Kawalsky, along with O'Neill and Ferretti, played on the Stanley Cup champion New York Islanders in 1992 and 1993. His most recent coaching position was Assistant Coach for the New Jersey Devils.  
|  **Assistant Coach Louis Ferretti** Lou Ferretti joins the Nordiques from an Assistant Coach position with the Boston Bruins. Ferretti along with O'Neill and Kawalsky, holds two Stanley Cup championships from the New York Islanders in 1992 and 1993.   
|  **Video Coach Samantha Carter** Sam Carter has hockey in her blood as the daughter of the late, great Jake Carter. Sam's coaching resume includes a gold medal as Head Coach of US Women's Hockey at the 1998 Olympic Games and four NCAA women's championships at Minnesota-Duluth. The Nordiques are fortunate to have her quick, incisive eye analysing their own and opponents' strengths, weaknesses, and playmaking.  
|  **Skill Coach Murray** The singularly named Murray has been known as a Strength and Conditioning Coach during his ten years coaching in the NHL. However he was one of the most skilled skaters in the NCAA during his time as a Centre at Harvard 1983-1987, and an excellent Skill Coach in the AHL, and the Nordiques are fortunate to have recruited him for this expertise.  
|  **Strength and Conditioning Coach David Dixon** Dave Dixon served fifteen years as an officer in the United States Air Force, culminating in a rank of colonel overseeing basic military training in San Antonio, Texas. Dave brought his education and extensive experience in Sports Physiology to the AHL as a Strength and Conditioning Coach for five years. This is his first season in the NHL.  
  
* * *

**Protect and Defend**

 

Elliott came up the center, Hailey fanning out to his right and Grogan on his left. "Hold positions!" Elliott's voice rang out, as he slowed ever so slightly, watching the two threats in front of him. One made a slight move left and Grogan charged in. The move had been a feint, though, covering an easy steal and a pass to the other defender who was more than ready.

Jack stomped onto the ice. "Okay, so my forward line is all the way up, and the opposing defense has managed to clear the puck to the other end of the ice. I've got a problem with that. Anybody else got a problem with that?" The prospects all flinched. "The last scrimmage is tomorrow. After that you'll either get signed to the Nordiques ... or not," he snapped. He was done with rookie camp for the night.

The assistant coaches swarmed in to take his place as he left. Carter already had her iPad out, no doubt ready to replay their mistakes for them in technicolor detail. 

 

"What do you think of them?" George finished pouring the second whiskey and pushed it across the desk.

Jack took it and stared at the amber filtering light and shadow as he sat back. "Elliott overthinks—I mean, a rush should actually be a _rush_. Satterfield gets distracted. Gorgan ... Gordon ... whatever, he goes off half cocked."

"And Hailey?" George prompted. 

Jack sighed and ran his hand down his face. "Hailey has the best brain of the bunch, and he's a whole five foot six inches of skating machine."

"Being short has worked out all right for Gionta and Gerbe," George remarked, unruffled as ever. 

Jack waved a hand. "Either I'm a pessimistic old crank, tonight, or we're going to debut at the bottom of the division."

"I'm hoping it's the former. But you know the standings this first year don't matter, as long as we build something we can grow with."

And that's why he and George were there. The NHL's long awaited reshuffling to bring more teams to Canada had meant a group of very patriotic Québécois had been able to secure a franchise for Quebec City, and were building it from the ground up. 

They'd hired George Hammond as General Manager because he believed in teamwork, not stars, and he'd hired Jack as coach for the same reason—that and his popularity in Quebec. Jack had brought along guys he similarly knew and trusted from his playing days, Kawalsky and Ferretti.

George had been close with Jake Carter, back in the day, and trusted his daughter to have the same philosophy. Any doubts on the coaching team about hiring the first woman coach in the NHL were put to rest after five minutes of hearing Sam Carter pick apart the skills and strategies of the prospects in scouting videos. It was just another plus that she had singlehandedly brought the team into practically science fiction territory by installing digital streaming something-or-other systems that had video playbacks and diagrams at hand on tablets and big screens anywhere and anytime the coaches needed them. 

Jack couldn't ask for better management or coaching staff. They just needed to fill out the player roster, and that meant finding a balance of natural talent and chemistry. 

Jack sipped his drink. 

"Sleep on it," George said. "My granddaughters assure me that the worse things go the night before, the better opening night is. Let's see how they play in the scrimmage."

 

By the time Jack and the scrimmage teams made it to the ice the next night, Daniel Jackson's rapid-fire patter was already giving the fans a rundown on the prospects they would see in the game. George had called Daniel's observation skills outstanding and snatched him up as PA announcer for his uncanny ability to speak twice as fast as a normal person, meaning flawless delivery of French commentary with added English for the high points. Somewhere the new radio and television broadcasters were doing the same, stoking the appetite of hockey-starved Québécois for their new team. 

Jack had first met Jackson—"call me Daniel"—when George had invited him to one of his early get-togethers with the staff and the NHL veterans who had already been signed, even though PA announcer was a very, very part-time contract gig. 

"PA announcer?" Jack had blurted out. "You should be in television—you've got the looks for it."

Daniel had raised his eyebrows and Jack had felt his cheeks pink. Daniel just said, "I fell in love with hockey going to games, being in the arena—the whole live experience. The chill off the ice, the sound of the puck cracking against the boards, the feel of the crowd all around. That's … that's where I want to be, where I want to engage the fans."

Just watching Daniel share his passion for the game—yeah, Jack got it. 

Later in the afternoon George had pulled Jack over and said, "Take a look." He tipped the top of his beer bottle in Daniel's direction, where Daniel was chatting with Marchenko and Tolinev. In Russian. 

"Earlier today he helped Larson tell a story about a game he played for the Swedish National Team to some of the other guys, and I'm pretty sure he called Kawalsky a nickname he hasn't heard since his grandparents passed."

Daniel was now roping in a couple of the French Canadians to hear the Russians' story. Jack shared a look with George. This was teambuilding.

At Jack's nod, George flagged Daniel and waved him to come over. "You're quite the polyglot, son."

Jack turned with a look of mock horror. "George! There’s no need to insult the man."

George gave his usual headshake and Daniel ducked his head to hide a smirk. 

George went on, "Our foreign players have translators from their agencies who help their clients navigate living part of the year in North America. But we don’t have anyone on hand in the organization to translate, help the players with their French and English. How would you like to fill that niche?"

Daniel blinked and looked to Jack, who nodded at him. “That would be great, sir," he replied.

"Glad to hear it, son! Welcome aboard." George clapped Daniel on the shoulder and shook his hand, then went off to let his aide know about his new hire. 

Daniel had then turned to Jack. "So, I’ll get paid for this, right?"

Jack patted him on the shoulder. "Yeah. You'll get paid for translating right up until you get paid for announcing."

 

George—or his granddaughters—had been right about game day. On both sides of the scrimmage, Jack's offensive lines and defensive partners were pulling together and acting like teams. Jack didn't know what the other coaches had said to Elliott the night before, but he wasn't hesitating. Grogan worked _with_ his line, instead of gumming up their plays.

Hailey was especially on, using his small size and speed to dart through holes. He had a knack for being able to see the openings coming three moves in advance—a skill that made him Carter's favorite. At the moment it made him _not_ the favorite of the defenders he was up against. Vallarin was getting increasingly physical in his attempts to stop Hailey. So far, Hailey had proved hard to hit. But sheer physics said that if Vallarin did manage it, a full foot in height and a hundred pounds in weight difference would make a hell of an impact. 

Jack wasn't the only one who'd noticed. By the third period, Elliott's slow burn boiled over, and he cornered Vallarin against the boards, throwing his gloves down and getting in the defender's face. One part of Jack was impressed to note that they remembered the new rule against removing helmets for the fight, even though their visors made punching awkward. Mostly, he agreed with the cheering fans, pleased to see his kids looking out for each other. When Hailey looked over to see how coach was taking it, Jack gave him a smile and a nod. 

 

The next day, Jack let the other coaches spend the morning consolidating their thoughts on the prospects before they got together and compared notes with him. He spent his time reviewing the post-game interview highlights. 

There was Elliott, of course, young enough to be a little unpolished speaking to reporters, but sincere enough to be endearing. "No, I'm not looking to be a tough guy. It's not ... I'm not a fighter, really. I want to score, I want to rack up assists. That's what I'm here for. But I'm not going to let anyone get away with harassing my teammates, either."

Hailey was pure energy, grinning and bouncing. "I'm used to it. They always get pissed off they can't stop me." He paused and gave an especially sweet smile in Elliott's direction. "It's nice to know my team has my back, though."

Jack had airtime, himself. "Our team isn't going to have any Swedish supermodels or Russian lunatics. It won't be flashy individuals. But it will be a team. A family."

 

The rest of the preseason, Jack and his staff worked on building that family on the ice. George pitched in with the help of Daniel, hosting more off-ice activities. Slowly talk within the team morphed from debating the new hybrid icing rule and arguing about whether Tortorella was the best or worst thing that could happen to the Canucks, to politics, and favorite books, and stories about siblings growing up—to Jack sharing his chagrin that his ex-wife's influence had his son picking baseball over hockey, to Daniel talking about the foster parents who had moved him to Vancouver after his parents died.

The teambuilding paid off when their first regular season game was a win. It was at Montreal, not home, but a good start, nonetheless.

Unfortunately the end of their first game also saw one of their big men, Marchenko, go down hard and have to get carried off the ice. 

Jack did his post-game interviews, then cut short his time in the locker room celebration to check on how Marchenko was doing with Doc Fraiser. 

"Torn ACL," she reported.

Jack winced in sympathy. Been there, done that. "What are his options, doc?"

"I won't be able to tell the real story until I get him into a diagnostic suite at a hospital," Fraiser said. Jack nodded. 

"I'll fill George in," he said, looking over to where Marchenko was icing. Daniel sat on the table opposite him talking quietly in Russian. Since he wasn’t translating for the doc anymore, Jack figured he was sticking around for a member of the team who needed to hear his native tongue. 

Before he went to talk to George, Jack wanted to check up on Marchenko himself. He moseyed over, and waited. Daniel was caught up in telling some story involving a lot of gestures. He gave Jack a welcoming smile when Jack stopped beside them, but didn’t stop his rapid flow of his Russian. He was looking rather rumpled, his glasses slipped halfway down his nose. Jack reached over and slid them back up. Slowly. 

Then suddenly wondered what the hell he had just done. 

_Say nothing, act casual._ Deciding he didn't need to talk to Marchenko after all, or look at him, or let anyone catch his eye, actually, Jack did an abrupt about-face to go report the news to George while they waited for Marchenko's agent and an ambulance ride. Not quite fast enough to miss the two men gawping at him, bemused, or the doc smiling behind the chart in her hands as Jack ducked out the door.

"He's going on the long-term IR for sure. We'll know more once they get in there, but it could be anywhere from three to nine months."

"Dammit."

He and George talked for a while about different options for filling the hole this left among their D-men. Finally George said, "It's been a late enough night and we have the trip home in the morning. Talk to Ferretti and get back to me. And don't lose sight of the fact we started with a win."

Jack collected his duffel and headed out to where he could call for a cab to the hotel. 

The parking lot was nearly empty, sodium lamps casting a dull orange glow on the asphalt. The quiet of the night was a backdrop that highlighted there _was_ some sort of sound off to his right—muffled rustles and grunts and ... Jack peered along the sidewalk, trying to make out shapes in the shadows. Whatever it was didn't sound right and Jack started moving on instinct, pace picking up when it was apparent he was hearing a fight. 

"Hey, what's going on?" he shouted at the lump of figures in the dark. "Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" A shape separated itself from the group as one of the men faced him, wearing a Canadiens sweatshirt.

"Putain Nordiques," he spit, and Jack dropped his duffel and sprinted forward with a sick feeling in his gut. Thoughts of what happened with that baseball fan in California a while back, all the horrible soccer hooligan stories he'd heard, were flashing through his head. 

There were two other Habs fans still bending over a figure on the ground, and Jack gave the asshole facing him a punch to the nose hard enough to feel it crunch under his fist, so that he could get past him to the others, pull them off. The distillery smell of them was sickening, and unfortunately the alcohol had made them too drunk to realize when they should be beat. Jack had sobriety and skill on his side, but it was obviously also going to take endurance. 

He drew the fight away from the victim, hoping he'd be able to put the brawlers down and check on the guy soon. He glanced down and recognized the official team zip-up jacket, not fan gear. Oh, shit. Another glance showed it was Daniel on the ground, Daniel who had stayed late to talk Marchenko through his injury exam and keep his spirits up. Daniel who had finally left in Nordiques colors and been a target for these assholes and their drunken aggressions. 

Fury blacked out every thought but _pound. Punch. Beat. To. The. Ground._

His head didn't clear until his opponents stopped fighting back. 

As soon as he realized it was safe to turn his back, he rushed over to Daniel and knelt by his side. At least his eyes were open and tracking, squinting through the swelling, with a cut on the bridge of his nose where his glasses had probably hit before flying off.

"Daniel, you okay?"

"Mmm, no, not really." He seemed to be struggling to his side, so Jack gently helped him. Daniel turned his head and spit—a mouthful of blood and a small white projectile. "S'okay, just a cap," he clarified. 

It would still be a trip to the dentist, Jack thought. After a trip to the doctor. And, oh, yeah. He pulled out his phone and dialed George. "Are you still inside? Can you find whatever piss poor rent-a-cop excuse for security they have in this godforsaken stadium?" It only took a minute of explanation before Jack was assured that George would have security, paramedics, and police on scene as soon as possible, and George's own presence even faster. 

"We'll have you to the hospital and patched up in no time, big guy," Jack told Daniel. "Anything we need to worry about?"

Daniel very carefully shook his head. "Cracks and bruises, as near as I can tell. I'm not going to feel like moving for, oh, maybe a month, but I don't think there's anything critical."

 

While Daniel (and Jack's knuckles) got tended to in the emergency department, George had been busy dealing with their paperwork, calling Nordiques Legal and PR, and calling the Canadiens GM to give him a heads-up on the shitstorm that was about to hit the media. This was going to be an ugly revival of the old Canadiens-Nordiques rivalry.

But apparently George had had time to arrange something else, too. When Daniel was finally released to a room, the nurse brought them to a double where George was already waiting for them and the other bed was occupied by Victor Marchenko. 

Marchenko sat up, eyes narrowing when he got a look at Daniel. He spit something out angrily in Russian, fists clenching. Daniel responded with something soothing, his head nodding slightly back in Jack's direction. It wasn't too difficult to translate. Jack held up his bandaged hands. 

Marchenko eased back, relaxing a bit. He gave Jack an approving nod, a gesture between equals rather than player to coach.

Daniel yawned carefully around his sore jaw, and the nurse and George carefully prised him out of the wheelchair and into his bed. Jack already knew he couldn't stay since it was long past visiting hours, but he did linger to be the last one out. 

Not that he knew what to say. He started to fiddle with the oximeter line, but dropped it in a hurry when he realized he might set off some sort of alarm if he pulled on it too hard. Instead he gripped the bed's side rails as well as he could with his gauze wrappings and drummed his thumbs on the metal. 

While Jack was silent, Daniel spoke instead. "I don't remember you being an enforcer, back in the day. But I appreciate the defense."

"There were a few times in middle school," Jack admitted, "but Mom was furious at the idea of me being a goon. My coach wasn't too thrilled about it either. Said I had more skill than that—it was back when enforcers were pretty one dimensional."

Daniel hummed assent, his eyelids dropping. "You do like to take care of your kids, though. Made you a good captain, good coach."

 _I protect my own_ , is what Jack wanted to say, but it caught in his throat and he wasn't sure why. "Sleep tight," is what he said, instead, resisting giving Daniel's hair a ruffle. 

 

The next day was a zoo of activity, with the whole team wanting to storm the hospital and check on Daniel, and a crush of press outside. Jack managed to sneak in before visiting hours officially started to check on Daniel—and Victor. Considering both the guys were running on not enough sleep and too much pain, he limited the visitors to just Reynolds, as the captain, who recorded a message on his iPhone to take back to the rest of the team. The spectacular bruising around Daniel's face wasn't going to reassure them much, but he managed enough good-natured joking to hold them over—Jack hoped. 

George also brought the captain, head coach, and GM of the Nordiques to personally apologize for the behavior of the fans, which Daniel naturally said they couldn't be responsible for. 

Shortly after they left, the CTV News on the room's television cut to showing the breaking news at the front of the hospital, so Jack turned the volume up a little. 

"Mr. Jackson is one of our best-loved staff members," George was saying into the sea of microphones and flashes facing him. "We are extremely grateful that he is not critically injured and the doctors tell us they expect he will make a complete recovery with no lasting damage. I would also like to thank the Canadiens team, who have been fully supportive throughout this incident." 

George then turned to the TVA microphones and gave the same spiel in French. Once he was through, he turned to the Canadiens' GM and they shook hands for the cameras, looking friendly but solemn. 

Then it was Bergevin's turn in the media scrum. "Every member of the Canadiens organization and team is shocked and saddened by the attack last night. Our two teams enjoy a friendly professional rivalry on ice, but we in no way condone violence from fans—"

"Yadda," Daniel's voice broke in, and, yeah. There wasn't going to be anything surprising or unexpected. Jack hit the mute button.

He stuck around in the room while George's uncannily efficient assistant Walter made the arrangements to get transport back to Quebec City—Marchenko to a hospital there where he would get his surgery and Daniel home. 

"No complications showed up overnight," Daniel reported, "so it's just going to be massive doses of ibuprofen for me for a while. George told me he's putting the team medical and training facilities at my disposal for anything I need."

"You're welcome to them," Jack agreed, "though you'll probably be mobbed by the guys anytime you show up. I can take them out on a long run and give you a heads up if you want to slip in and use the whirlpool."

Daniel grinned wryly, making the puffiness of his swollen face swell alarmingly. "That would probably be a good idea." He added sincerely, "I do want to see them—I'll miss them. But I'm not really up for being crowded, or dealing with any big emotional scenes." 

Jack immediately began planning in his head small groups of players for visiting, with at least one level-headed guy he could count on for riding herd in each bunch. They would be good groups for visiting Marchenko post-surgery, too. 

Walter came back in with a pair of glasses for Daniel identical to his old pair (seriously, how did that guy _do_ that?), and had the nurse going through the discharge information and orderlies lining up wheelchairs in no time flat. It was time to get home, and Jack had a game in three days to prep for.

 

During the travel day from Montreal, Carter, Ferretti, and Kawalsky huddled together over their tablets, gleaning what the team needed to work on in general and what they specifically needed to remember the next time they faced the Habs. The next morning, Dixon took the team for a conditioning run while Carter ran a video session for the rest of the coaching staff, which Ferretti admiringly titled Everything You Wanted to Know about Playing the Leafs but Were Afraid to Ask. 

True to his word, Jack had called Daniel to let him know the team was offsite if he wanted to visit any of the team's PTs. And now Jack was sitting in a darkened screening room thinking more about Daniel in a whirlpool bath downstairs than the team they'd be facing in a little over fifty-six hours—despite having dropped by Daniel's apartment the night before to make sure everything was okay and calling him, well, maybe a few more times than he probably should have. 

Fortunately his coaching staff was a lot more focused than he was, and he could rubber stamp their plans to prep the team for the game. 

And if he decided to mosey on down the PT area at eleven—close enough to lunch—well he was the coach and he could do that. 

Apparently Daniel had just gotten out of the whirlpool; he was wearing only a towel and reaching for his clothes. When he caught sight of Jack in the doorway, he straightened up. "Jack."

"Daniel."

The poor guy's face was still a technicolor nightmare, with a few body bruises in the black-gray-red range. Jack maybe stared a little too much, because the next time he looked up at Daniel's face, he was getting the full flying eyebrows. 

"Appendectomy scar," Daniel said. 

"What? Oh. Um." Jack hadn't actually noticed it before, but now that Daniel mentioned it ....

"Jack?"

His eyes flew back to Daniel's face. "Ah ... I just wondered how you were. If you needed a ride home. Lunch. Anything." Jack felt itchy in his skin. Maybe because Daniel was fully focused on him, now. 

"Are you always this much of a mother hen? Because I do, truly, appreciate the help the other night, but minus being outnumbered by rival fans, I am not, actually, a helpless baby chick."

"I know that!" Jack protested on reflex. The state of Daniel's knuckles proved he was no pushover the night he was jumped. Jack wasn't sure what it was that made him want to keep checking on Daniel. He always worried about his "kids," but not to the point of fussing over them. 

"Look," Daniel said, slowly moving closer. Jack swallowed hard. "You're the one who has a team to get ready, and I'm the one who's sitting around doing nothing but waiting for my bruises to heal."

He stepped right into Jack's space, and took Jack's face between his hands. Jack stopped breathing. Daniel continued, quietly, leaning his forehead against Jack's, "How about you go do your job, and I'll send you stupid little text messages during the day so you know I'm all right?" He gently let go and stepped back, and Jack had to force himself to remember to breathe. 

"Uh, okay, yeah," Jack agreed. 

Daniel smiled, the real, sincere one, not the sardonic one he wore so often. "All right. Go. Shoo." He flapped his hands at Jack. "I need to go get Larry to tape my ribs back up."

Jack nodded numbly, and made it out of the training room on autopilot. 

 

Somehow the stupid little texts did the trick, though. Yeah, he still called Daniel in the mornings and dropped by Daniel's in the evenings with takeout, but during the day, getting a message from Daniel meant that he could lose himself in plays and drills and meetings for a while until the next message came through. 

When game night came, they were ready. Daniel was there, watching from George's private box. Even though he insisted he could call the game, George didn't want to risk the fans knowing the guy beaten up in Montreal was in the PA booth and mobbing him with well-wishes. The old Nordiques PA announcer had been happy to come out of retirement for a few games. 

Jack's phone buzzed, and the text came in. _You've got this._ He smiled. Yeah, they did. 

And they did. 4-0 Nordiques, with a hat trick for Hailey. 

Jack made sure the press stayed out of the locker room just long enough for him to hold up his phone on speaker so Daniel could say, "Congratulations, you guys were fantastic," in five different languages. Which prompted raucous cheering and replies of "We miss you!" in five languages. And then it was time for the team to bask in the media glow. 

Two more home games to go. Jack felt great. He had this. 

 

Jack did not have this. Call, practice, texts, dinner, game night, repeat—that had worked great through the home stand. Daniel's cheekbones had reappeared, even if his bruises were still spectacularly awful. But then they went on the road and Jack discovered he was unable to sleep in a strange hotel room—a problem he hadn't had since his first year playing in college. 

"So call me," Daniel said, when Jack finally admitted it. 

"It's too late," Jack protested. 

"I'm more of a night owl, anyway," Daniel said with a verbal shrug. "But how about this. Call me around ten or eleven, and keep the line open. If I fall asleep on you, I fall asleep on you, but I'll be there."

It sounded stupid.

But it worked. 

 

When the team got back into town, not undefeated but well into the top half of their division, Jack got into his car at the arena and drove straight to Daniel's. 

"Hey, welcome back." Daniel stepped aside to let Jack in. His bruises were much smaller, and he was wearing that genuine, sweet smile again. 

"Sorry," Jack said. "I just got into town and I had to ... I had to ..." 

Daniel stepped up to him. "You had to ...?" And he slowly leaned forward and kissed Jack on the mouth. 

Jack startled back in shock. "Wha—" 

Daniel dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry, I thought we were on the same page." He glanced back up. "The personal stories in George's back yard? The way you went after those guys in Montreal? The training room? Falling asleep together on the phone?"

Jack felt woozy. "Am I having a stroke?"

Next thing he knew, Daniel was grabbing him and gently steering him into the couch. A minute later Daniel was perched on the coffee table in front of him and handing him a glass of water. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed."

Jack sipped, then shook his head slowly. "No, I shouldn't have been an idiot."

Daniel raised his eyebrows in question. 

"I don't think you're wrong, I just didn't _know_." He rolled the glass between his hands and glanced up at Daniel. "I fooled around a few times with teammates, but it never meant anything—" He waved his hand helplessly. 

"I imagine there were a few puck bunnies that didn't mean anything, too," Daniel said. 

Jack nodded agreement, feeling even more lightheaded—he felt a vast "oh shit" territory opening up before him. Yeah, there had been girls, too, but the last person he had wanted to take care of when she was sick was Sara. The last person he couldn't stand to be away from on the road was Sara. He had _married_ Sara. 

A pair of hands gently took the water glass from him and set it aside. Then Daniel gently pulled him forward. "C'mon, head between your knees."

Jack kept a tight grip on the hand in his grasp—no matter what, he still didn't want to be separated from Daniel—and he felt Daniel's other hand rubbing his back. It was extraordinarily soothing. 

"I’m not going anywhere," Daniel said. Maybe he was taking psychic lessons from Walter. 

"I'm not sure— I don't—" Jack couldn't get his thoughts out, and he was absolutely coward enough to be glad his face was hidden between his knees. 

"You don't know what you want here? You don't know how to have something more than a quick one-off with a man? You're not sure you can?" Daniel supplied. 

Definitely psychic. 

"Yes, that," Jack replied, circling his free hand to indicate "all of that." 

"I just know I can't _not_ , either," he added, finally sitting back up. "You're right. All those things—how crazy I went when you were hurt, how I didn't want to be away from you—it _was_ obvious. I just …"

"Idiot?"

Jack was man enough to admit it. Just once, with a nod. To this man only, because it was too important to deny. 

"If you need more time to—"

Jack cut Daniel off by pulling him forward by their still-clasped hands and meeting him halfway with a kiss. 

When he pulled back, Daniel looked soft and starry-eyed—pretty much the way Jack felt, himself. 

"No sitting on the bench," he promised Daniel. "I'm in the game."


End file.
